Almost Demon
by staceycj
Summary: Set in S4---Dean dreams of torture.


Months ago, years ago, an eternity ago, Dean wasn't sure anymore, his brain had been shazamed by dream root, and his it had concocted his worst nightmare, himself, but truly that wasn't the scary part, the scary part had been when he saw himself with raven black eyes. Eyes that looked wet, shiny, like the demon in him would ooze out and attack the closest human, and begin the destruction on the next living soul. That had scared him, but what truly terrified him was that his demon self predicted that Dean would become a demon once fricasseed in the pit.

Dean hadn't believed it, hadn't wanted to believe it. He felt that he was strong enough to stay sane, to stay human. Dean should have known better, should have known that he wasn't as strong as his father. All of that didn't matter any more. The rack was months, days, years ago, and here he stood, blade in hand honing his torturing skills on the newest victim that had been placed under his skilled hand.

This one was a man, much more fun to play with, because the victory was so much sweeter when they broke. Big, strong, strapping men, who in life had been giants, men who had been dicks, and thought they owned the world, would come before him and weep like a woman. And when they did, when Dean heard the same sobbing pleas that he had once uttered, it filled him up with such pleasure and giddiness that he couldn't wait to get a new toy and try it again.

Dean pulled the spotlight that hung just over head to the bottoms of his newest guest's feet. He liked the souls of the feet, liked to slice and dice them, it elicited the loudest and most heart felt screams. He liked to move up from there, carving out knee caps, destroying manhood, and filleting the chest. Cutting it wide open, and forcing the victim to watch as he cut out his heart, threw it into a pile, and lungs, threw them in the same pile, and he was starting to enjoy the wet sound them made when they landed on the other extracted organs. Alistair said once that he would enjoy the sounds of death, but he hadn't believed him, now, however, he understood.

He moved up the man's body to his neck, did some interesting carvings into it, all the while avoiding the vocal cords; he wanted to be able to hear the man scream. And when done with the neck, he went up towards the face, towards the eyes, which he liked to taunt the soul with removal, and was just about to scalp the man, when he looked down into the eyes, expecting to read fear, and did, but he also realized that the eyes were Sam's. He grinned, the blood he was about to shed was going to be so much sweeter….

Dean jerked awake, eyes wide, breath coming out in short quick little gasps, and he starred at the ceiling, willing his heart to stop pounding. He turned and snuck a quick look at his brother, who was sleeping peacefully in the next bed. His face was slack and innocent looking, the covers all tucked up close to his chin, somewhere in sleep he had pulled his knees up and was curled up in his bed, facing his big brother. The man who had dreams of cutting him up into little pieces, and enjoying the fear and the pain that radiated off of him. Dean ran his hands down his face and tried to control his breathing.

"Dean?" Sam asked softly from the next bed.

"Go back to sleep Sammy," Dean said automatically.

"You okay Dean?" Sam's voice was thick with sleep. Dean looked at him, and his hazel eyes were slits, and they were tired and filled with concern, concern that Dean didn't deserve.

"I'm fine Sammy. I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

"Nightmare?"

"Naw. I'm fine Sammy. Just fine." Dean turned onto his side and faced the window, and tried to get the images of his brother's face being carved out of his mind, tried to forget the pleasure it had given him when his brother screamed his name out in agony. Prayed that Cass or God, or whoever listened to him, would just end this. The transformation had begun in hell. He had started to become a demon. No man would welcome the screams of his brother, no man would take pleasure it carving up the man he had raised, no man would dream of such things, he was tainted, he was sick, and he was worthless. God had wasted a get out of hell free pass on him, an almost demon.


End file.
